Page 1 of Wicked By Design

Prologue

The Wicked Lady

The Grand Hotel, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 5th September 1816

Lady Cecilia Cleveland was everything the daughter of a duke ought to be. Perhaps she was no diamond, but she was lovely, with hair the colour of ripe barley, skin as perfect as a rose petal, and unusual, slightly catlike eyes of gold. She was clever without being a bluestocking, amusing but not too amusing, and could listen to men witter on about hounds or horses or carriages or sport or whatever fashionable hobby they had adopted while looking as if she were truly fascinated.

“Oh, Cilly is the perfect lady.”

“Cilly is such a dear.”

“Oh, we must have Cilly, for she is so very kind.”

These phrases were repeated often, and with real affection, for she was universally liked.

Tonight, that would change.

Cilly looked around the glittering ballroom. The evening was a triumph, both for her sister’s husband, Gideon Bramwell, the man who had designed and built this fabulous space, and for the owners, Mr and Mrs King.

Whilst the hotel was still under construction, Mrs King had conceived the idea of an end–of-summer ball to show people just how marvellous the end results would be. Champagne flowed in abundance, the band was in fine form, and the vast space rang with music and laughter and the rhythmic sound of feet as the dancers swept around in a dizzying blur of colour and motion.

The cream of the ton was here tonight and, from everything Cilly had overheard, the hotel would be fully booked in no time. She was so glad for Hetty, whose husband’s future depended on this success, a future that now looked as solid as the immense marble columns lining the elegant ballroom.

If only she were not about to become the fly in the ointment. Yet there was no other choice. It had to be tonight. It had to be now. In a week’s time, she would return to her father’s home and leave Little Valentine forever. By the end of the month, she would be the Countess of Crenshaw, her husband a hard-living, hard-drinking man more than twice her age, who lived for hunting and cared nothing for the finer things in life.

No.

Cilly was done with being a good girl. She was done with being biddable and polite and with putting everyone else’s comfort and happiness above her own. There was no knight in shining armour coming for her, and any girlish dreams she’d had of marrying for love had been cast aside over a decade ago. Tonight she would take her future into her own hands, and for once she would be selfish. Wicked, even.

She didn’t care.

Cilly had planned everything down to the last detail. She had paid bribes and loosened stitches. All she needed now was to act.

Her gaze sought and found a petite, dark-haired serving girl weaving through the crowd, bearing aloft a plate of delicate little amuse-bouches to keep up the revellers’ stamina until suppertime. Lucy met her eyes and nodded. Cilly nodded in return. Well, everything was in order, then.

Viscount Rivington was standing alone, drink in hand, his cynical gaze prowling over the guests like a bird of prey searching for dinner. There was a hard set to his jaw, his blue-grey gaze cold and glittering. Cilly’s heart did a little skip behind her ribs, and for just a moment her courage faltered.

Was this really what she wanted?

She forced herself to remember the Earl of Crenshaw, his florid face, the heavy jowls that made him look like a mournful hound, and the spittle that collected at the sides of his mouth when he spoke.

She shuddered and put up her chin.

Rivington looked up as she approached. His expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes — curiosity? Perhaps he did not know quite what to make of her. Cilly didn’t blame him. She didn’t know herself anymore either.

“My Lady Cecilia,” he said politely, inclining his head. “Your sister must be beside herself. This evening and the hotel will be all anyone can speak of for weeks to come.”

“Indeed, it will,” Cilly agreed placidly, though they would not speak of it for the reasons Lord Rivington supposed. She stood beside him, far too aware of his size, of the width of his shoulders, and the curve of his sardonic mouth, at which she could somehow not stop staring.

Cilly gave herself a mental shake and reminded herself of her mission. Somehow, she must induce him to dance with her. Even if it meant asking him herself.

“I’ve not seen you dance this evening.”

Cilly’s head whipped around in surprise. Thank heavens, luck was on her side tonight.

“No, I haven’t,” she admitted, lowering her eyes for a moment before glancing up at him, giving him her most beseeching look from under her lashes. “But I should like to, very much.”

He gazed at her, and her heart thudded hard and fast, for when he looked at her so intently, she felt as if he could see right through her, as if her every secret was exposed to his searching gaze and nothing was safe.